


NIGHT TERROR

by MyDarkDigitalFantasy



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Android Daydreams, Character Death In Dream, Hallucinations, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Bad Ending, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Strangulation, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has No Name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 11:39:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17703641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyDarkDigitalFantasy/pseuds/MyDarkDigitalFantasy
Summary: "Lieutenant, how can you tell whether or not you are dreaming?""You kind of just can? Dreams don't feel real, or they feel less real, I guess. They might feel real in the moment or whatever, but then you wake up and hey--back in the real world."The RK900 wished that was what he experienced. When everything in his awareness--observations, memory, preconstructions--was processed through the same digital sensors, the line between what could be real and what could be an imitation of reality was difficult to discern.Written for DBH Rarepair Week. Day 4: Nightmares





	NIGHT TERROR

RK900 313248317 - 87 pulled himself up into a sitting position. His lips were parted and his voice box let out three miliseconds of vocal static before he silenced it.

What he had seen was gone. He was active, aware, and as he turned his body, Hank Anderson was laying in bed beside him. Still deep in sleep, as his steady heartrate of 52 BPM confirmed. He breathed in and out, relaxed and easy, his broad chest rising and falling beneath the bedsheet.  
  
Most certainly alive.

Bit by bit, the applied tension in his muscles unlocked, his legs and arms going slack. For a 17 second period, he did not move, remaining where he was, before his own breathing simulations began again.

 

It would be best if he re-positioned himself, he concluded.

Though his weight pressed down heavily on his side of Hank's mattress, it was a well practiced motion to slip out from under the blankets and off the edge without disturbing the human. He watched him with every step of the way to ensure that, however. He stood over the bed and Hank remained asleep. Success.

The man's eyes were heavily lidded, with little movement behind them to suggest he was in REM sleep. Instead he was likely in a simple, dreamless rest. His mouth was closed, a stray lock of hair sticking to his lip. He was tempted to reach down and brush the hair away, but something about the prospect of reaching out to the man had him... hesitating.

Instead he turned from the bed and walked to the door. As usual, Hank left the bedroom door open, a courtesy to Sumo, so the dog could get up in the night to drink water or to sleep elsewhere if he so chose (and the dog often did). Right then, Sumo was asleep in the corner of the bedroom, on top of a pile of dirty clothes Hank was neglecting to put in the wash. Sumo had not stirred when the RK900 had, which was good. He closed the door behind himself, taking care to turn the knob to its fullest rotation to ensure it would slide back into the doorframe without making a sound.

 

He walked out of the bedroom and into the living room. He used to sit on the couch to enter stasis, before Hank had insisted he join him in bed as a showing of their increased physical and emotional intimacy. Hopefully the man would not question his decision to return to the spot in the morning. If he roused himself before Hank did, he wouldn't have to know. The RK900 quickly arranged a protocol to remove himself from stasis before the human's average waking time of 10 AM. He then changed it to 8:30 AM to be safe. Then again to 8 AM.

 

He should return to stasis, now that he had put some distance between himself and Hank.

His thirium pump was elevated, excess heat flooding his system, as if prepared for exertion. He breathed heavier, attempting to shed the heat through the air cycled in and out off his respiration biocomponents. His thirium pump remained at the higher rate, even when he attempted to manually return it to a rest state.

It was preventing him from entering stasis, error messages warning him of the conflicting directives.

He needed to turn his attention elsewhere, perhaps. His eyes scanned the familiar, if dimly lit landscape of Hank's living room. He could turn on the television and play something at reduced volume. The bright lights might still stir either Sumo or Hank from sleep, so he discarded the prospect. He could read one of the books on the shelves, though the lack of light would degrade the quality of his page scans. He looked to the record player tucked against the wall. He couldn't play it, the noise would be disruptive, but he did have recordings of the songs already saved. He liked to listen to them, from time to time. Perhaps it would help him regain his baseline.

He flipped through his virtual archive of Hank's collection, visualized in his mind as a catalog of album covers. He stopped on Wayne Shorter's Night Dreamer album, something not somber, but overwhelmingly energetic either. The song that shared its title with the album began, the music filling his processor even if it was inaudible in the air around him.  
It was... pleasant, to listen to music like this, even if he preferred the "texture" (as Hank might say) that playing it off the record player brought.

He sat on the couch staring forward, noting that his thirium pump's pace was decelerating, but slowly.

 

He decided he would like to think of something else. Something more preferable to what had moved him from Hank's room.

 

He opened a preconstruction, and two figures were placed in the space of the living room. Himself and Hank Anderson, broader than himself, the golden silhouette catching the details of his body and his hair but nothing else. When he had preconstructed Hank's behavior on prior occasions, he had wished it had appeared in more detail, though he understood the aesthetic was likely to maximize efficiency in processing speed. Spending excess time rendering details would be undesirable in an emergency situation.

He placed the two figures closer together, standing beside the record player. His audio processor lowered the volume of the song track and added a faint echo in order to place the music within the context of the preconstruction.

"I don't really dance." Hank had told him, more than once previously. The audio clip remained as an additional context for the preconstruction. His own image offered Hank a hand, and after a moment of hesitation, Hank accepted it, guided in closer when he pulled Hank into the typical posture for a waltz. Though a Jazz Waltz was a musical notation rather than a dance notation, it didn't seem inappropriate for the music playing. He curled one arm around the back of Hank's midsection, and held Hank's hand in the opposite. He predicted Hank would take a moment to reorient himself in the hold to prepare to dance. Then, they began. To avoid striking against anything, he guided them both towards the empty space of the living room. Their steps were unhurried, timed off of intense notes from the artist's saxophone. He predicted Hank's sense of rhythm would have a slight delay to it (as it often did, from his observations). At forty seven seconds into their waltz, Hank would move at the wrong moment, and his foot landed on top of the RK900's. The contact lasted less than a second, and applied less than 5 PSI over his foot during that time. Hank quickly withdrew the step afterwards.

"Sorry." His preconstruction generated the apology from Hank's saved voice profile. 

He halted the preconstruction, the music pausing with it. No, that didn't seem right to him. Hank would know that such a small amount of pressure had absolutely no chance of harming him. His apology would not sound so severe.

He rewound and adjusted the preconstruction.

"Sorry." Hank said, this time sounding lighter, apologetic but also amused. Closer, but still not right.

He rewound again, adding additional tweaks and context.

This time Hank laughed, a two note chuckle. "Hah. Shit, sorry." The touch of vulgarity indicated that Hank's laughter was self depreciating, but it also carried over Hank's desire to apologize for the accidental mistep regardless of the lack of actual harm. It was a gesture of consideration rather than contrition.

Satisfied, he rewound the entire preconstruction to start again from the beginning. 

"I don't really dance." Hank said. The RK900 offered his hand and Hank accepted it. He pulled him in close until their chests were touching, the wavering outlines of their images overlapping in places. They slowly circled around one another. Hank stepped on his foot, and he felt the pressure sensors in his foot simulate the moment of contact. "Hah. Shit, sorry," The angles of their heads suggested they made eye contact after. Though the faces in the preconstruction were indistinct, the RK900 would like to believe that he smiled back at Hank in answer in the following pause, and after that they continued dancing. 

His thirium pump rate had returned to a resting one. He felt good. He felt 'content', which he believed to be a combination of feeling positive emotions while also feeling safe. 

Safe: existing without the threat of harm. 

Content: feeling positive and also safe.

He allowed the preconstruction to continue running as he started up the process to switch into stasis. The song track continued to play as the figures stepped in place.

His mobility and gait generation ended as his body prepared to remain still for an extended period. The dual video feeds of his eyes shut down; first right, then left. His awareness of the room flickered out as his spacial tracking suspended shortly after. The sensory field across his body ceased function in a steady wave, leaving his fingertips and analyzer remaining before they too stopped detecting heat, pressure and texture. All that was left was the active preconstruction, a faint echo of Hank's living room preserved in his processor.

 

**> STASIS ACTIVE **  
**> PRECONSTRUCTION CONCLUDED 7:15/7:15**  
**> STASIS CONCLUSION SET FOR 08:00 AM (GMT-5)**  
**> STANDBY**  
**> **  
**>**  
**>**

 

The image of himself and Hank dancing changed. Where his processor had been frozen on the last frame of the preconstruction, the details began bleeding in. Hank's skin, wrinkled, scarred and blemished, formed over the approximation. He was clothed in the same pajamas he had seen the man go to bed with, the plain navy shirt and the long, elastic banded slacks. His hair was fine and gray, lightly disheveled either from waking up from bed or from the circles they had made in their dance.  
He could feel the warmth of the contact explicitly, the worn and calloused skin, the heel of Hank's palm. His own pseudo-skin existed against the human's in the same exacting detail.

He realized he was not seeing the living room from the perspective of his position on the couch, but rather, he was there, an arm around Hank's middle, right by the record player. Hank looked back at him with vivid blue eyes, his expression relaxed and pleased. 

 

Then, they were no longer frozen in place.

 

He released Hank's waist, and with that same hand, he reached up and grabbed the man in the throat, at the tender underside of his jaw. 

Over the course of miliseconds, the look in Hank's eyes changed, his body instinctively tensing up, muscle group by muscle group.

He had seen that look before, in Sumo's gentle eyes, when Hank had accidentally stepped on his tail or a paw while stumbling around in the early morning.

_That hurt. Did you mean to hurt me? Was it an accident? Did I do something wrong?_

Shock and confusion and hurt played about the human's face. When Hank had hurt Sumo, the man was always quick to soothe him with pets and high pitched apologies and praises. 

He did not move to soothe and apologize to Hank.

His grip was tight and unyielding, and Hank's hands came up to grab at his forearm, trying to pull him away. He withstood the man's increasing struggles with little effort, and soon there was genuine alarm in the human's face. He could feel his pulse thrumming under his hand, as easily as he could detect the adrenaline rushing in the blood within it. Without any explanation given, Hank had been forced to treat him as a threat and fight back in earnest.

At two hundred pounds and six-feet-two-inches in height, Hank Anderson was a large, bulky human. Though he had little formal combat training beyond what had been required of him by the police academy, Hank was well honed by practical hand to hand combat experience he'd gathered on the street. He'd developed his own style of fighting, one that used his size and weight to his advantage.

Any other model of android, barring some rare heavy labor models, could be overpowered by him. Even an RK900 could be caught off guard.

But he had observed Hank in their mutual proximity to one another. He had seen the man fight and the tricks he used to get the upper hand. He knew what to expect and could not be surprised. When Hank grabbed onto him and attempted to flip them both towards the ground, he redirected that force, swinging the man to the floor while he remained on his feet.

Hank bared his teeth in a frightened, angry snarl, kicking out at his legs. He managed to produce much higher PSI on impact, but not enough to dislodge his stance.

 

**> STOP**

 

It was strange. He had heard of humans describing out of body experiences. They often explained it as feeling as though they were a passenger in their own bodies, as if it were happening to someone else and they were merely a spectator. It was not what he was feeling.

Every movement, every sensation, from the way he continued to apply pressure to Hank's throat to the way he lowered himself down onto the man's body to pin him in place, was all felt as if it were simply occurring as normal. His body moved as if it were simply moving. His senses reported every detail of Hank's skin and uneven breathing with the same accuracy as they always did, uninterrupted and uncorrupted.

Only it was all happening without his will.

Hank thrashed underneath him, trying to gain even an inch of leverage to throw him off. He was substantially heavier than the human, and he felt secure enough to bring both hands to Hank's throat. His knowledge of human anatomy made finding the carotid arteries within the muscle and sinew of his throat a simple prospect.

It was not a sleeper hold. His aim was not to render Hank Anderson merely unconscious.

The human seemed to realize it, his eyes widening even further.

The pressure cut off his air as it cut off the blood supply to his brain. It was likely, given his experience as a police officer, that Hank realized he had less than a minute before he would pass out.

 

**> NO**

 

He felt the jerk in the ribcage beneath him as the human's body attempted to draw in air, a frantic pull of his diaphragm. Hank's struggles went from defending himself to fighting for his rapidly dwindling life. It was little more than raw mammalian impulses, movements and thought patterns pulled from deep in his brain. He clawed at the RK900's arms, enough to not only part the pseudo-skin but to puncture the white dermal envelope beneath. Small notifications of thirium leaks appeared in the corners of his vision, overlaid on the edges of Hank's reddening face.

The increased blood pressure from the strangulation was causing blood vessels in the whites of his eyes and around his eyelids to burst.

 

**> PLEASE STOP**

 

Hank reached up for his face, trying to get at the RK900's eyes like it was often advised in self defense classes. The blunt nail of a thumb came in contact with his left eye's corneal layer but did not damage it. He did not even blink the intrusion away. He watched as the movements of the hands at his face which scratched lines into his cheeks and eyelids grew less coordinated. 

Beneath him, Hank was weakening.  
His pulse slowed as he was unable to draw in air.  
His eyes grew unfocused, blinking heavily.  
His arms fell down to his sides as he fell unconscious beneath the RK900.

 

**> DON'T DO THIS**

 

If he released Hank now, the odds of avoiding permanent injury were still high, though it was likely his windpipe was damaged.

He did not let go.

If he continued to press down on his throat the way he was, brain damage was inevitable.

He did not loosen his hold.

He maintained his grip as seconds turned to minutes, even as Hank Anderson was limp and lifeless beneath him.

 

**> WHY ARE YOU SHOWING ME THIS?**

 

An indicator in the corner of his vision tracked the percentage chance of brain death for Hank Anderson. He maintained his hold as it climbed higher.

 

**> PLEASE**  
**> [98%]**  
**> STOP**  
**> [99%]**  
**> PLEASE**  
**> PLEASE**  
**>**  
**>**  
**> **

**> STASIS ABORTED**

 

His gait and movement system activated three miliseconds before his spacial awareness systems were online, something that should never happen under any circumstance. Within that span of time he had risen from a sitting position into a stand and lurched forward into a running gait.

His right shin struck the corner of the wooden coffee table in front off the couch. His gyroscope activated in time to warn him that he had lost his balance. He had 0.235 seconds of airtime and his momentum was enough to carry him across the living room. His upper body slammed into the shelves on the wall, and books and DVDs came crashing down with him.

Sumo barked from the other side of the wall, alarmed and frightened by the sudden cacophony of noise.

It was barely another moment before Hank Anderson shoved his bedroom door open, the service pistol he kept near his bed brandished, obviously assuming a badly skilled burglar to be the source of the noise.

The anger and alertness there on Hank's features was quick to turn to confusion when he found the RK900 laying on his side on the floor among the fallen belongings. "Jesus Christ RK, you scared the shit out of me." He lowered the gun as Sumo shoved past his legs and through the doorway, the dog quickly approaching him and sniffing the dusty DVD covers around him. "What the hell happened?" The human gestured at the mess with his unoccupied hand.

For once, he was at a loss for words. Several prospective responses passed through his processor but none of them were a satisfactory explanation for his position. He settled on one that was the least unsatisfactory.

"I apologize. I did not mean to wake you."

The man's expression softened and he set the gun down on the dresser. "Hey, you alright?"

 

All his processes and sensory systems were now functioning in normal parameters. Though he had yet to compress and catalog his memories through stasis, he was in perfect working order. Or so his system evaluation told him.

 

"I am," He began, not making eye contact with the human, "Experiencing unknown errors in some of my processes. I am afraid I need to leave."

"Leave?" Hank repeated, the open concern bleeding into his voice. "Where are you going?"

"Back to the precinct." He selected it from a list of places, evaluating it based on distance from Hank and relative safety. "There are advanced facilities that will allow me to do a more thorough self-diagnostic."

"Uh." Hank rubbed an eye with the backs of his knuckles. "Shit, alright. You need a ride?" He was unquestioning despite the mess and the circumstance. Hank was showing his concern for him. Normally that would make him very happy.

"No." The word came out with much more force and speed than was necessary, enough to prompt an eyebrow raise from Hank. "No. It won't be necessary. Go back to sleep, Hank."

Eventually, after helping him pick up and replace the fallen belongings back on the shelves, Hank relented. He calmed Sumo down and retreated back into his bedroom and into his bed.

 

The RK900 climbed into a taxi and left the house behind.

 

At 2:21 AM, the only active individuals at the DCPD precinct were the night crew and a handful of PC200 and PM700 units. The androids did not acknowledge him beyond simple IFF pings that he returned as per procedure. Most of the units were at rest within their charging stations, He approached one of the spots vacated by a PC200 unit currently on watch, turning around to walk into position back first. The charging port connected to the slot at the nape of his neck, and he felt and registered the additional charge being fed into his active thirium. It was unnecessary considering his healthy reserves, but still beneficial. Like this, connected and held in place, he felt secure. Hank Anderson was miles away, safely in bed.  
  
Away from him.

 

He could not understand the origin of his experiences during stasis. Androids did not dream, but perhaps deviant androids experienced something analogous to the human REM sleep. He did not know, and had no one to ask. Hopefully it would cease in time on its own, if that were the case.

If it wasn't simply a quirk of corrupted programming, however...

Perhaps it was a way of reprogramming him. Or at the very least, desensitize him. To fill his mind with so many prepared images and sensations of himself killing Hank Anderson that he would no longer question the idea when faced with it in reality.

 

He began shutting down his systems in preparation for stasis, forcing himself to end that line of analysis. He would hope for the former, and prepare for the latter if more evidence pointing to it should arise. 

 

**> STASIS ACTIVE**  
**> STASIS CONCLUSION SET FOR 11:00 AM (GMT-5)**  
**> STANDBY**  
**>**  
**>**  
**>**

 

It was 11:13 AM, and Lieutenant Hank Anderson arrived at the DCPD precinct, in line with his average arrival time. He grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. Detective Gavin Reed approached him to begin a conversation.

The RK900 disconnected from his charging station and approached the two of them.

Hank gave him a brief wave of acknowledgement without interrupting what he was discussing with the detective.

His eyes spotted the service weapon hanging holstered at the human's hip.

Hank did not react with immediate alarm when the RK900 reached down and drew it from the holster.

The RK900 pressed the muzzle of the gun to the back of Hank Anderson's head and fired.

 

**> STASIS ABORTED**

**Author's Note:**

> There's additional context to this but since I haven't gotten around to writing it, this is what you guys get <:D
> 
> It's intended to be ambiguous as to whether RK900 is "merely" catastrophizing and unable to cope with his fear of somehow unintentionally hurting Hank or being forced to hurt him and thus dwelling on it during his unconscious thought
> 
> or whether something deliberately malicious is happening to him.
> 
> I've had this scenario rattling around in my head for a while and the DBH Rarepair week seemed like the perfect excuse to get off my butt and write it.


End file.
